


learning one love language

by agaave



Category: Original Work
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed, i think thats the tag?, plant pictures as bonding, sad boy hours, sommar tries not to botch the comfort part of the fic, sornieth needs therapists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agaave/pseuds/agaave
Relationships: Sanbica/Sommar (original characters)
Kudos: 2





	learning one love language

The door across the hallway from Sommar’s room is already shut. There’s no light peeking out from underneath, either. Sommar assumes that means Sanbica’s already wrapped up and gone to bed. Kinda rude, going to sleep without saying goodnight or anything, but Sommar’s gotten used enough to Sanbica’s personality that he understands Sanbica will do whatever he’s feeling up to at any given moment. 

He goes into his own room, tugging off his shirt and going to find something more suitable to sleep in. It’s about at that point that he becomes aware of a faint scratching sound in the background, and he turns around to find Sanbica in his bed, sitting up and working on something in that book of his. He looks perfectly comfortable, like he’s been doing this for years, and not like this is the first time he’s ever deigned to do something like this.

“You’re in my room.”

Sanbica replies, without looking up. “I am.”

“In my bed.”

“Yep.”

_“Sanbica.”_

_“Sommar,”_ Sanbica replies, snidely mimicking his tone of voice. 

“Sanbica, I’m not letting this go.”

He closes the book, looking up at Sommar as if he doesn’t understand his reaction. No, that’s not quite it. The line of his shoulders is too tight, his fingers half-curled on the cover of the book like he’s not quite relaxed enough to lay them flat. 

“I wanted to spend the night with my boyfriend. Pretty sure that’s what couples do together.”

“I just,” Sommar says, trying to figure out how to phrase this, “thought this wasn’t something _we_ did.”

Something darkens in Sanbica’s gaze, and he drops it to the book, one nail scratching at the cover. “I’m trying to do things - _normal_ couples do. I know the idea is surprising, but -”

“No, I -” Sommar comes to sit on the edge of the bed, one hand on Sanbica’s blanketed knee, “I’m glad you wanted to do this. You just… surprised me. I was ready to wait longer if - that’s what you needed.”

Sanbica looks up at him, flushed in surprise. 

“You - stop being _generous_ and hurry up getting ready for bed,” he snaps, and Sommar laughs, sliding off the bed to go do so. 

His nighttime routine feels different now, knowing that Sanbica is waiting for him. It’s normally not a step that Sommar ever has to think about, sharing a bed, but Sanbica isn’t _casual._ He doesn’t give anything easily, and he never gives it shallowly. The prospect is sometimes honestly terrifying to Sommar, who has only ever let himself have shallow. At this point he should be long gone, doing something else, finding someone new to pass the time with. Instead, he pulls the covers back to get into bed, content to leave a handspan’s width between them. 

Sanbica’s opened the book again, adding tiny, fine details on a drawing of some dusk jadevine. Sommar watches the little picture come to life under Sanbica’s hands, watching the withered leaves take on a realness only Sanbica seems to be able to capture. He remembers harvesting those, and it almost feels like the image on the page might be just the same as the plant if he touched it. 

“It looks good,” he says, and a faint pride touches Sanbica’s expression. 

“Doesn’t it?”

Sanbica leaves the book open, setting it on the stout nightstand by the bed. Even after he lets it go, though, his posture stays like that for a moment, half-turned away from Sommar. 

“Sanbica -”

“Don’t,” Sanbica says, and finally moves back, sliding more deeply under the blankets without looking at Sommar. “If you ask me if I’m okay, I’ll throw something at you.”

“That’s okay,” Sommar says. “All you have for ammo right now are pillows and your life’s work. I think I’m safe.”

Sanbica snorts, one of said pillows coming up to whap Sommar in the face. He blocks it, smiling, and tucks it under his arm.

“Is this the kind of bedmate you’re going to be?”

“Shut up,” Sanbica mutters, and it’s only barely venomous. “Go to sleep.”

He’s tempted to be contrary, but it’s late enough and he’s tired enough that he decides to acquiesce instead, leaning over to extinguish the light.

“‘Night, Sanbica.”

“‘Night.”

It’s not any one thing that wakes Sommar up. There’s no noise, no stirring, no outward reasons for him to come around. But he’s lived this life long enough to trust another sense, one that doesn’t necessarily rely on something happening to put him on guard. 

He’s not quite awake, not yet, at least not until he becomes aware of Sanbica’s breathing. It’s coming too hard, too fast. A second later, Sommar realizes their bodies are tangled together, one arm thrown over Sanbica, boxing him in. He means to lift it a moment too late, Sanbica shoving at his chest and almost falling off the bed in his attempts to put distance between them.

His chest is heaving, eyes unfocused for much too long in the darkness, and Sommar doesn’t know whether to reach out or hold back. He stays where he is, one hand out to - what? 

Sanbica forces himself to take a deep, shuddering breath, and it sounds like it physically drags against his vocal cords, hard and raspy. His hands, white-knuckled and curled into fists, are shaking at his sides. Sommar opens his mouth -

 _“Fuck,”_ Sanbica says, and his voice breaks horribly in the middle of the word. He wrestles the blankets away from himself, stalking across the room and throwing the door open. He pushes his own door shut behind himself, but not with enough force for the latch to engage. 

Sommar is locked in place before he finally remembers to move, half-stumbling out of bed to follow Sanbica into his room. When he pushes open the door, Sanbica isn’t in bed, but curled up against the far wall, one of the blankets dragged off to wrap around himself.

He looks up when Sommar enters, and hastily wipes at his face.

“I didn’t - expect you to come in here,” he says thickly, and Sommar has no right to feel the sting. But he does anyway.

“You were panicking,” he says, folding his legs under himself as he sits next to Sanbica. Close enough to touch. Far enough to let him know he’s not going to unless he wants it. 

Sanbica doesn’t say anything in response to that, staring down at his hands. Sommar bites back the rest of what he wants to say, and waits. 

“You shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?”

Sanbica’s attitude is always blisteringly rude. It’s a part of him. But it’s been stripped away now, and instead leaves something so flat and empty behind. 

“You shouldn’t come to check on me.”

“Why not?”

“It makes me…” Sanbica struggles with the words, “feel… _okay.”_

 _“Why -”_ Sommar begins sharply, and Sanbica turns to face him, his voice like self-immolation. 

“Because it’s not okay! It’s not fucking right that I can’t do — _anything_ — that I can’t just relax and let myself enjoy shit! That I can’t just fucking be _normal_ -”

He cuts himself off, a muscle sliding in his jaw as he grips the blanket hard enough to threaten a tear. His hands are still shaking. Sommar wants to hold them until they’re not.

“You’re not going to listen to me if I tell you you’re normal. But you are _fine,”_ Sommar says fiercely, forestalling Sanbica’s protest, “the way you are. You’re not broken. You’ve been through some _shit,_ okay, and there’s nothing wrong with you because you didn’t get over it in a day.”

“And if I can’t? If I just can’t fucking let it go and I spend the rest of my life like this? Will you still be here?”

“Yes.”

He says it without thinking, without considering. Half of him wants to grab the word right out of the air as soon as he’s said it, take back something that concrete. He shouldn’t make promises like that.

And yet the rest of him doesn’t care. Sanbica needs that promise, needs to know he’s not going to be alone. And Sommar knows as soon as he’s said it that he’s willing to give it. To make good on his word, if that’s what it takes.

_Whatever it takes._


End file.
